Let’s go back and revisit the stomach-clitoris-that’s-now-a-scabby-thing. It’s healing, I think. Slowly. It seems to be getting smaller. Its not black like it was, and it doesn’t seem to be radiating redness. The faux-doctor part of my psyche thinks those are clear signs of healing.
Most significant to the healing process was probably Joanne’s advice to, “Stop putting shit on it!!!”
I’d been dousing it consistently in Neosporin, peroxide, and my magic salve made by the Inuits in Alaska.
Today, I’m ready to expedite the healing process. My good friend’s mother – who is an old-school European – picks these weeds from the park that she swears will heal anything. They picked me a patch of these weeds with instructions to crush ’em up and tape ’em around whatever’s ailing me. WTF, I’ll give it a whirl. I’m an exceptional product tester. Did I just foreshadow myself?? Maybe I should be more cautiously frightened to just stick mashed up park weeds on my sensitive part, but really, I’m sick of it and ready to try a magic elixir. If this mashed-up weed works, I’m taking it on the road and selling it by the crushed-up barrel.
I will save you from the pictures. Don’t say I don’t give back, Reader.
I’ll keep the stomach-clitoris-now-a-scabby-thing progress report updated. I am on my way to crush some weeds, tape ’em to myself and go to bed. Maybe I’ll even find some temporary relief from a midlife crisis.